The Gauntlet
by alicesandra
Summary: A small accompanying piece to my Story, Blood of the Heir. In Chapter 13, fourteen year old John Sheppard is set a rather daunting challenge by his father.


**Authors Note:** For those of you that have been following my story, Blood of the Heir, I must apologise. I'm afraid I hit a rather nasty case of writers block, so in trying to elevate said blockage, I decided to follow up on an idea that Nacimynom mentioned to me a while back. So John and I are both rising to the challenge…

For those of you that haven't read my work before, this little piece can stand on its own, but would make more sense if you read the other stories first. But if you don't have the time, as they are rather long, then this deals with the issue of why Colonel John Sheppard may have decided to take the book _War and Peace_ with him to Atlantis. It stems from something that happened during his childhood.

My heartfelt thanks to Firedew, for her beta skills and her patience. You are the best!

**The Gauntlet**

John stared at the piece of paper before him. He had no idea how or where to start. What little he had written stared back at him, almost taunting him that he was not up to the challenge, and that he would fail. That he was already failing by the mere fact that he had only got as far as writing the title, and he had written that over four days ago.

Five thousand words. That's what he had to write. He couldn't even manage ten.

He tossed his fountain pen down in disgust, which skittered across the paper, leaving a trail of black ink as it went. Great.

He wadded the offending sheet up, turned around in his chair and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and landed neatly in the garbage can. Well at least his dunk shots were getting better. As the half a dozen balls of paper around the outside of the can attested to, he was certainly getting enough practice.

He turned back around to stare out of his bedroom window and sighed heavily. The sun was already at its highest, and his entire room was bathed with its warming light. Yes, it was going to be yet another scorching day that was just begging to be taken advantage of. He could ride his horse down to the lake, take a long swim, and then head back for a sandwich or something. Or maybe take his four-wheeler out for a run around the estate …

Or not.

It was so unfair. The punishment seemed so overkill. What crime had he actually committed? He had skipped a couple of English Lit classes. So what? Well, ok, four to be precise, but it hardly warranted being stuck here for the entire summer.

But Dad was like that. He knew exactly what buttons to press. Dad had known that he had been planning on spending most of his days with his friends, though John doubted that they were missing him much as they would be catching the sweetest waves in Hawaii right about now.

And what was he doing? Reading.

It wasn't so much that John hated to read. In fact, far from it. He couldn't get enough of adventure stories, like _Moby Dick_ and _Robinson Crusoe_. But the heavily fancy words of _Pride and Prejudice_, or the old language of Shakespeare always left him cold and desperately wanting to be anywhere else than in the classroom. Which, unfortunately, had led him exactly to where he was now, facing one of the biggest challenges that John could ever remember Dad giving him. Give him mucking out the stables for a whole month any time. At least he would have been outdoors actually doing something instead of sitting on his backside in the house.

He had heard that THE book was the greatest book ever written. But, after a little research, the reality of John's challenge was quickly recognised. At over 560,000 words, it was also probably the longest book ever written.

When he had finally convinced himself to call his tutor and asked whether it was even possible to finish the book in the allotted time, Mr. Botfield had laughed loudly at him down the phone.

"_There are 363 chapters, John. If you manage to read one chapter a day, you may finish it in perhaps a year. That's if you can tear yourself away from all those hobbies you have. Good luck. Seriously, if you do this I will eat my hat!"_

And that just made John's determination that much stronger. He would even provide the hat.

He did the math. 560,000 words. That worked out to be over 1400 pages as a paperback. If he could read 250 words per minute, it would take him approximately 38 hours to finish it.

Easy.

But, that wasn't the hardest part of the challenge. He also had to write an essay that would likely be more suited to an undergrad student than a fourteen year old boy.

John grimaced as he slouched back into his chair, hung his head low, and stared at his hands.

No. This was not how he expected to be spending his summer. But, then, the last two summers had not been what they once were. Not now. Mom was gone.

John's lips tightened into a thin line as he felt the cold emptiness deep in his stomach and the pang of sorrow he felt whenever he allowed himself to think of her. Even though people had said that it would get easier in time, he still felt her loss as strongly as if it had been yesterday. And never did John feel her absence more than when he argued with Dad. Lately he was finding her absence almost unbearable as, more and more, their arguments were becoming a regular occurrence.

It wasn't as if John did it deliberately He hated arguments. He much preferred the easy life. But Dad was becoming increasingly dictatorial, issuing orders and demands as though he was one of his employees rather than his son.

What made it even harder to accept was that Dad hadn't always been like this. He had once been a kind hearted, fun loving, even tactile father. John's love of adventure had been born from the bedtime stories that Dad used to read to them, which had often been the only way to get him and Dave in to bed.

Sometimes Dad had read straight from a book, doing all the voices of the characters and making it sound like the most magical journey ever. But there were also times when he and Dave had managed to persuade him to tell of his own incredible adventures as a child. They were the best.

It seemed like a lifetime ago now as the man was now a shadow of his former self. Her death had affected more than just her two sons. Patrick Sheppard had been so devastated by her passing that he had withdrawn completely from everything and everyone. Even from Dave, who had always been his shining star. Not that John had ever minded. He had had his mom.

His throat tightened and he swallowed hard. Dad had said how disappointed she would have been of him. Would she? Truly?

He allowed himself to think briefly over all the times he hadn't made the grade, scored the most points, or failed to achieve whatever target that had been expected of him. The importance of achieving greater goals had come from his father, along with harsh lectures and undisguised disappointment when he fell short of expectations.

But his mom had just hugged him close, told him that he had tried his best, and that was all that they had wanted from him. Little had she known that despite the consolation she might have thought she was offering him, this response would always make him feel somewhat ashamed and annoyed with himself. In the end it had only spurred him to try harder.

But now there were no hugs, and what little words of comfort he got came from Marie, their housekeeper turned nanny. He was not ungrateful to her, but they just weren't the same.

No.

All the fun and laughter was muted, which had always been at the heart for the Sheppard home. Targets and results were all that remained. As though John and Dave were already working for PSI.

John was painfully aware, as Dad kept reminding him, what was expected of him. He was to go to Harvard, like Dave, and study Law and Finance so that they were primed to take over the business when the time came for their father to step down. But despite John's natural ability with figures, he knew that his calling was elsewhere.

He was born to fly.

Of course, when he had first mentioned this to Dad, he had laughed. Actually laughed and told him not to "entertain such ridiculous ideas."

However that had just served to strengthen John's resolve. He knew the path he wanted to take, and unfortunately it didn't match his father's expectations, though he hoped that he might still make him proud.

He would go to Stanford rather than Harvard, study hard at maths, maybe go on to do a Doctorate in Aeronautics and Astronautics, and then join the Air Force as an officer.

But first, he had to prove himself. He had to write this damn essay.

_"You cannot back away from something just because it is hard, or because it is boring. You have to work harder at the subjects you find a challenge."_

And there was the challenge, his father's words like a knight's gauntlet thrown down at his feet.

Read the book.

Write the essay.

Maybe then he would finally win not only recognition from his father but his approval.

So, over the past several weeks John had set to the task with renewed vigor and determination. He hadn't ridden his horses or his motorbikes. He hadn't stayed up late watching his favorite movies. Instead he read. At breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. And all the hours in between.

38 hours. That was his target.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the way it which it was written that was the challenge, as it was actually pretty easy to read. Nor was it the seemingly endless number of Russian names that he had to keep up with. Thankfully their extra language lessons were paying off, though his Russian was still pretty basic. It wasn't even that the story wasn't engaging, for it had drawn John in pretty quickly.

It was the sheer volume that he was struggling with. John read till his eyes hurt and the words on the page became a blur. Marie had even told him in her usual French fashion to stop reading so much or he would damage his eyes.

But he hadn't given up or allowed his to focus to waver. He would finish this and write the five thousand words. He would prove to his father that he was prepared to do whatever it took to achieve his goal, no matter what.

And in the early hours of this morning, he had finally finished it.

Now, all he had to do was write the essay.

No small task in and of itself. Give him something physical and he was there. But give him something to say or write, and he was in a whole world of pain.

_Never let anyone or anything stand in your way of your goals. Only you can make things possible. If you truly believe, you can make it happen. _

His mother's voice suddenly echoed so loudly in his mind that he could have sworn she was standing right behind him. He quickly swivelled around in his chair. Once again, he sighed. No. He was alone.

And yet? There were times when, he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost sense her presence; her reassuring warmth, love and support.

He inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and he could almost swear that he could feel her standing behind him, reaching out. He held his breath, waiting for her touch. Yet none came. He gasped out his unsteady breath and slowly opened his eyes, only to find tears were blurring his vision.

He leaned his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, exhaling deeply.

He had never believed in ghosts, but the near constant sense of her presence in the house she had died in was beginning to make him question that. No. He wanted, needed, to believe it was more than that.

Whatever IT was, it almost always made him feel calmer, more centred and focussed. And that was what he needed to be.

_Open your heart, John. Let your spirit free…_

Once again, he could hear the sound of her beautiful voice in his mind and he smiled. She had spoken those words to him whenever he had played the piano. She had told him it would increase his creativity.

He could do this. He could show his father just what lessons he had learned from _War and Peace_ and that his five thousand words would provide hard evidence that he had actually finished it. But how to start?

He looked down at the fresh piece of paper before him. Part of the black ink had bled through to that sheet too, so he promptly balled that up and threw it over his shoulder.

John smiled at the satisfying clang as the ball of paper hitting the inside of the trash can.

Ok. Focus.

He looked back down at the fresh piece of paper smoothed it out, and once again picked up his pen. The nib of his fountain pen scratched as he carefully wrote the title out once again.

**The Cost of War to Man.**

He waited, hoping for some divine inspiration.

Nope. Nothing.

Ok, time to approach this from another angle.

John knew that Dad had set this task, not to challenge his literary skills as such, but to show him about the true price of war.

Although the title of the book had suggested to John that it was about war, and a large portion of it had focussed on that, but there was so much more to it than battles and warfare.

Even at fourteen, John knew he wasn't exactly worldly wise, but he was smart. He had eyes and was a quick learner, so he was able to grasp many of the themes. Even though he had not experienced some of them himself, he could at least appreciate what Tolstoy had been getting at.

The book had focussed not on the art of warfare but on the almost irrational motives of human behavior during times of war and peace. But there was one character that John had found incredibly fascinating as well as inspiring, though he was hardly the archetypal image John had imagined of military leadership.

The commander of the Russian forces against Napoleon's invasion, General Kutuzov, was portrayed as an old, fat, one-eyed General that had been brought out of retirement.

But he was a brilliant strategist as well as a wise old soul, who actually reminded John of his grandfather. Kutuzov was humble, almost spiritual, and was a sharp contrast to the vain and self-absorbed Napoleon with his cold use of logic.

John did not miss the irony: Dad was like Napoleon, when John wished that he was more like Kutuzov.

The old, tired, and even lazy General emerged as a great leader, not because he developed a logical plan and then demanded that everyone followed it, but rather because he was willing to adapt to the flows of events and think on his feet. He had revised his plan as each stage turned out to be vastly different from what was expected. Here was a man who was motivated by personal belief rather than the desire for acceptance, which made his final fall from grace only a minor tragedy for him. Be true to yourself.

But it wasn't only about the leadership of men, but of the men themselves that had continued to inspire him. It had been their courage in the face of battle that had made his heart race and swell with emotion.

He reached across his desk, checked the bindings on each book in front of him, and pulled out the third one down. Thin strips of paper poked out the top where John had carefully marked the most significant sections. He pried the book open from the top at one marker, quickly scanned down the page, and found the piece he was looking for.

**Formerly, when going into action, Rostov had felt afraid; now he had not the least feeling of fear. He was fearless, not because he had grown used to being under fire (one cannot grow used to danger), but because he had learned how to manage his thoughts when in danger. He had grown accustomed when going into action to think about anything but what would seem most likely to interest him – the impending danger. During the first period of his service, hard as he tried and much as he reproached himself with cowardice, he had not been able to do this, but with time it had come of itself.**

John had committed that message to memory. The soldiers could only be courageous by totally dissociating from what they're doing and what's going on around them. Perhaps it would be impossible to be courageous in battle (to kill and risk death for no personal reason) without thinking as little as possible about what was happening.

He carefully opened another section.

**On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat Kutuzov, his grey head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no orders, but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested. He listened to the reports that were brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of him; but when listening to the reports it seemed as if he were not interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in something else – in the expression of face and tone of voice of those who were reporting. By long years of military experience he knew, and with the wisdom of age understood, that it is impossible for one man to direct hundreds of thousands of others struggling with death, and he knew that the result of a battle is decided not by the orders of a commander in chief, nor the place where the troops are stationed, nor by the number of cannon or of slaughtered men, but by that intangible force called the spirit of the army, and he watched this force and guided it in as far as that was in his power.**

The spirit of the army - or rather the heart of the soldier - that would decide in the result of a battle.

Kutuzov was the only person who really understood what his role was in all of this – and he would just sit there, look calm, and try as best as possible to go with the flow. It helped, of course, that the old General had his finger on the pulse of the army and knew what it could and couldn't do at any given moment. Was this something that came with experience, or was this some inborn trait?

John didn't know the answer, but he hoped he would someday be able to lead his own men like that of the old General, and not like Napoleon. Or his father.

He lowered the book down onto the table, ran his hand through his hair and sat back in his chair.

Another theme that had struck John throughout the book had been love. Thankfully this was no romance novel, or else he would have definitely struggled with that. At fourteen, he had only the love of his mother to compare such an emotion to, so that issue still remained very much a mystery to him. But the message had been clear. Unexplained love could be a horrible mistake, but it could also be wonderful. At its best, unpredictable love was a symbol of the mysterious forces of human life and an instinct that could not be denied.

Financial loss had been another strong theme, which had led John to assess his own situation. He was only too well aware of just how privileged a life style he led, as his father repeatedly reminded him of the fact. Not that he didn't appreciate the latest gadget or best whatever his Dad's money could buy. But he didn't really care if he was wearing the latest or trendiest outfit. But if it meant spending out on something that was designed to do a job and do it well, then all well and good. Form follows function. It was never about the branding. Although, the same couldn't be said about Dave, who loved his designer clothes.

But what if he didn't have all this? If he didn't have money, would that stop him from following his dreams?

When Dave had heard about his desire to join the Air Force, he had made a throw away comment that Dad would probably disinherit him if he pursued it. He had said it in a moment of vindictiveness, but John hadn't forgotten it. Would Dad be that narrow minded? Could he really be that cold hearted towards his youngest son?

John certainly hoped not, but deep down, he didn't know for sure any more.

True, he probably wouldn't be able to afford to attend Stanford and it certainly wouldn't be easy, but it would mean that the attainment of his goals would be that much sweeter, wouldn't it? Tolstoy had even hinted that financial loss could bring about a rather liberating sense of freedom worth far more than mere material wealth could ever provide.

There was something strangely appealing in that thought; to be free.

John began to smile as he raised both hands to link together behind his head and leaned back in his chair once again.

It had been hard to be left behind and to forget about the amazing waves in Hawaii that he had been so looking forward to. But what Dad had not anticipated was just how quickly John had adapted to his change of circumstances and applied himself to the challenge.

His smile widened to a grin.

Dad also couldn't have realized just how inspirational the book would truly be for John, and how the old General had become so real and alive in his mind. Like a mentor from the past, the leader of the Russian Forces was guiding him, offering his words of wisdom.

He lowered his hands and looked back down at the heading.

**The Cost of War to Man.**

The book wasn't just about war, which was and is barbaric and brutal and not grand and glorious. He knew that already. He'd seen pretty much every single war film ever made. But this book took a far deeper look at the history of war. Rather than attempting to control circumstances, human beings had to move with its currents. Napoleon attempted to divert the course of the symbolic river, where men like Kutuzov merely attempted to control the boat, and not the river itself. Napoleon had failed and lost the Battle of Borodino.

The true cost was never about money, but life. Human beings are also defined by what they do, not by what they have or what they inherit. Acquisition of material possessions does not lead to success or happiness, a fact that John already knew only too well.

"Que sera sera …" John murmured quietly. What will be will be …

He took a long deep breath, picked up his pen once more and began.

_**War and Peace**_** opens in the Russian city of St. Petersburg in 1805, as Napoleon's conquest of Western Europe is just beginning to stir fears in Russia …**

* * *

**The End.**

**Post Script:**

All quotes are taken directly from the book, though I won't bore you with the details.

When I first start writing this short piece, it was purely designed to release my writers' block that I had unfortunately hit while writing the next chapter of Blood of the Heir.

But the deeper I went, the more I realised just how much John might have taken from the book, and truly been inspired by it. There are many characteristics of the old General which resemble that which we see in John.

Maybe in some small way I have stumbled on the reason why John Sheppard might have decided to take this book with him to Atlantis, had he read it of course, and that it wasn't just because it "takes a while to read…" And that maybe he was using it as a continued source of inspiration.

I would love to hear your views, and hope that this will keep you going until I finish the next chapter. Thanks for your patience and I hope to post something for you soon.


End file.
